Ironing.

One morning, I was laying in bed, awake, watching mike get ready for work. At a totally obscure hour, I might add. His routine goes something like this:

-Find a shirt to wear.

-Put shirt in dryer with a wet sock since ironing doesn't happen at this house.

-Shower

-Get dressed.

-If necessary, wait even longer for the dryer to finish ironing his shirt.

-Look at shirt. If still horribly wrinkled, throw onto the bed for his dear wife to hang up. or throw back into the laundry, and then find some sort of polo to wear.

-Shoes on. Wife kissed. Door shut. Mitchell screaming.

And the day begins.

So even though ironing is the one area of life mike hasn't ever complained about yet, I felt obligated to step up my wifely duties.

I took all 506 dress shirts off the hanger. Put them in a big pile of clothes (the big pile of choice around here- besides the pile of toys in the living room) and decided I would complete this task so my dear husband has clothes to wear to work. Well, clothes to wear in general since for whatever reason his preferred style of choice is incredibly close to "preppy" and Mike has nearly made his previously loved t-shirts extinct.

I could have totally used the "I have no idea how to iron a shirt whatsoever. In fact, the only reason I even own an iron is to press fabric with." (no, I'm serious. That's the reason we went to walmart and bought an iron.) I mean, growing up I never ironed. It's just something that happens when there isn't a dress-shirt wearing man living in the house during learn-how-to-iron ages in life. There was one once-a-week dress-shirt wearing boy, but lets face it, why iron when downy has a wrinkle-release, no-iron spray?

But then, see, one day we were in Ohio. Like 3 years ago. And Mike had an interview or something. And bought a new shirt for the occasion. And it was wrinkled. Badly. So Mike came downstairs to find his mother and I talking and asked "How do I look?" and she said "You should iron your shirt" "I'll just put it in the dryer with a wet sock" "I can iron it. Or maybe your new wife wants to" Me: "ummm... I would but I can't." Yes, that was a great moment. Cooking half-way decent might be the only thing that makes me a somewhat-competent wife.

So my mother-in-law taught me how to iron. Which isn't to say my mother never did, because she probably did, I just can't remember. But anyway, like I said, this was almost 3 years ago. And honestly I probably would have forgotten everything about ironing completely, but I was so impressed at the entire thing. Laugh at me. I remember thinking "it's like the ironing board was made to iron shirts" No really, I thought it was amazing. You don't forget amazing.

So yeah, I remember enough to figure the rest out. And so I ironed three shirts or so. My little never moving child growing inside me starting kicking ferociously (and by kicking ferociously I mean 3 times in a row, soft, sweet, non-rib killing kicks) as if she was saying "what is going on! sit back down and read a book like you've been doing my entire gestation so I can continue my never-ending nap." It's really a good thing she has such a strong heartbeat or I'd never know I was even pregnant anymore. Well, that and I'm getting fat at an increasingly alarming rate.

Mike came home to all his clothes taking up the living room floor. Pooh bear playing for the 17th time that afternoon. Mitchell sitting motionless on the couch (pooh bear does that to him- making pooh the ideal instant and free babysitter with a coo-coo mother and a hot iron). And me, ironing the life out of all his shirts. For the very first time in our marriage. And for the very first time in my entire life.

And now, every morning, Mike wakes up and thanks me profusely for the kind service most men I assume take for granted. I like keeping expectations low. Maybe I'll start cleaning the toys r us explosion before he gets home too.

Just call me the domestic goddess.

And because relevant pictures for this post do not exist, and because Mitchell is the cutest child in the world, I'll add some of Mitch and his father in the pool. Lets recall last year where the one year old stuck his face (yes, face down) into the pool constantly. This year, he has no qualms about jumping into the water. No nose plugs, floaties, or life saving devices required for my dear son. And no, he hasn't a clue how to swim. Along with potty-training, binky-weaning, and big-boy bed sleeping, Mike is determined this is also the year for swimming. Wish me luck in my further dive to insanity.